Friday, September 29, 2023
Saturday, September 23, 2023
A Summer's Day
in response to seeing the painting, "To a Summer's Day," by Bridget Riley, at theTate Modern Art Gallery, London. Image of painting courtesy Tate Gallery, copyright 2014 by Bridget Riley
A shimmering glare comes off
the river, a wavy shiver. Air
becomes a stream of blues
and greens, sheens and browns
and creams. Summer
swims in such blendings
and brief blindings, dives
into pools of light, laps
with wavelengths
at the feet of lovers. Oh,
yes, summer waves and hovers.
Friday, September 22, 2023
Thursday, September 21, 2023
Wednesday, September 6, 2023
Panic Attack
It makes your brain
feel like a sausage stuffedwith worry. It makes
your chest feel like a zoo
where on their own
all the cages opened
and here come the animals.
It spurs your heartbeat
like a drunken cowboy.
The world becomes a galaxy,
as you become smaller
than a poppy seed.
hans ostrom 2023
Tuesday, September 5, 2023
Monday, September 4, 2023
Pale Parody
The Old Earth spins
as it rollsaround the even older
Sun,
whose light Moon
bounces
onto Earth in a genial,
pale parody.
hans ostrom 2023
Saturday, September 2, 2023
Grandfather Anthem
I went to a picnic
and played my role:grandpa. I held the youngest,
9 months old, and sang
a few bars of a song I
made up just for him.
He pushed the side
of my face: everybody's
a critic. I kicked a soccer
ball with the four-year-old,
who calls me "Papi"
and pummels me with the
word Why? in our
conversations. Sometimes
I answer, "I'm not sure,"
which could serve as the
opening line of
a Grandfather Anthem.
hans ostrom 2023
Late Bloomer
The symmetrical mound
of purple chrysanthemums has bloomed.Such a restrained flower--
signaling Fall like a lovely
but modest actuarial checking
her calendar. And the bees,
the bees, greedy for nectar,
hover--then attach themselves
to purple and got to work,
with their whole bodies,
to extract, as if they sensed
an urgency in the air.
hans ostrom 2023
Friday, September 1, 2023
Nose to the Glass
Oh, the stories you tell yourself
about yourself. Constantly.Certain scenes keep coming around
like mail delivery. You recall bad
behavior. It begs at once for
regrets and excuses, which,
combined like soda and vinegar,
merely fizz. You invent arcs
in your life, heroic ups and downs.
You list alleged achievements.
You indict, forgive, forget, fudge,
and, exhausted, give in to fatalism.
You keep this silly sense of Self
afloat like a raft on a slow river.
No, it's more like Self's just a
habit, like a mannequin in a
window you walk by compulsively
or stare at, nose to the glass.
hans ostrom
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